Nothing Else to Count
by Rebecca5
Summary: COMPLETE--Chapter 10 Added, after a long hiatus. Grissom has trouble remaining detached from a difficult case. Could Sara the student become Grissom's teacher? G/S UST
1. Chapter 1

Title: Nothing Else to Count  
  
Author: Rebecca  
  
Rating: R for language and theme.  
  
Summary: SCA G/S UST A new case seems to affect Grissom, and he is the last to know. Can Sara help his solve this case and understand his attraction, or will Grissom become too personally involved?  
  
Disclaimer: No, I don't them; No, I don't make money from them. Wish I could have a couple of them for personal use, but that's another matter…  
  
Archive: Definitely. Please e-mail me at phxchic@cox.net to let me know.  
  
Author's Notes: Thanks to Devanie and Irene for their feedback and help in putting together my first fanfic effort, and to my other half for being so patient with me while writing. Title is courtesy a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Grissom's quotes are courtesy of Virgil's Aeneid and Bertrand Russell. This story takes place after Stalker, but before Miami: Dade.  
  
Spoilers: No real spoilers, but passing references to moments from Season 1 and 2 CSI episodes are sprinkled throughout.  
  
  
  
Brass lifted the yellow crime tape and ducked under it in one practiced motion, holding it for Grissom to follow behind. At first glance, Grissom noticed nothing unusual about the scene. It was a patch of desert, a few miles beyond the Welcome sign, well past any of the lights on the strip. The body lay several yards ahead, appearing to be on its back; nothing else appeared to be near it. Grissom certainly didn't notice anything that would explain the grim looks upon the faces of the officers present. Crime scenes were always tough, but these officers had long faces, furrowed brows, and were more silent than normal. As Grissom neared the body, he finally saw the reason for the darker mood—  
  
The body was smaller than he expected.  
  
"Shit." It came out of Grissom's mouth as a clenched exhalation.  
  
Brass turned slightly toward him as they walked. "You summed it up." The body was that of a boy, about 10-12 years of age. He lay on his back, as Grissom had surmised, eyes focused and locked upon the stars. There was no blood evident on the body. The child's face was serene, and his limbs appeared intact. Brass studied Grissom's face. "Any guesses?"  
  
"You know I don't guess. I look at the evidence. Who reported it?"  
  
"Officer Hudson," Brass began, flipping a few pages in his notebook and peering intently at it with his flashlight. "He noticed the body around dusk, pulled over and checked it out. He's the one who called it in."  
  
"Statement?"  
  
Brass sighed. "Of course. He felt on the neck for a pulse, then called it in. He didn't move the body."  
  
Grissom shone his flashlight near the boy's left side, noting the footprints in the dust.  
  
"Collect his shoes so we can rule the prints out. Warrick and Sara should be here any moment for casts and collection."  
  
Brass nodded. "I'll get right on it." He turned and walked back toward the officers, congregated just beyond the tape. Grissom turned back to the body, releasing a sigh of his own. Kneeling next to the boy, with his flashlight trained on the boy's face, Grissom reached out his right hand and slowly guided the eyelids down. The boy's serene face took on the appearance of a sleeping child.  
  
"'Death's brother, Sleep.'"  
  
  
  
Warrick and Sara arrived at the scene, taking in the sight of the small body and flashes of the camera around it. Warrick shook his head slowly. "Good thing Catherine has the night off."  
  
"Tell me about it." Sara watched as Grissom finished taking photos of the body and surrounding area, then turned her attention to him. "Any thoughts, Gris?"  
  
Grissom lowered the camera and wiped his forehead. "This would appear to be a dumpsite, given the few shoeprints we have. No signs of struggle, no blood, no visible evidence of bruising. No ligature marks on neck or wrists."  
  
"Have you gone over the body yet?" Warrick asked.  
  
Grissom shook his head. "No, just photos. The shoeprints are around the left side of the body. See if you can get a cast. Sara, bring your kit, and let's see what we have on the body." Sara nodded and walked to the right side of the body where Grissom was standing, then kneeled down and opened her case to retrieve a pair of gloves. The officers had set up a floodlight nearby for the CSIs to work by, and Warrick became a desert shadow as he opened his kit to begin mixing plaster for the casts. The three settled down to work quietly, with long faces and furrowed brows.  
  
  
  
"So it turns out that we weren't looking for a cat-burglar, but for a damn cat!"  
  
"A cat?" Greg doubled over in laughter while Nick stood before him; a half amused/half disgusted look spreading across his face. Greg slowly straightened himself in his chair, still chuckling. "The guy called 911 about a cat?"  
  
"His cat. Got shut in the hall closet-" Nick was forced to pause as Greg let out a snort. "Pulled down coats, knocked over the shoe rack, the guy's golf clubs." Nick shook his head. "You gotta wonder sometimes about what-- " Nick's thought was punctured by a low, crisp voice barking from behind him.  
  
Grissom stood in the doorway of the lab, a small brown paper bag in hand. "Greg, I need you to process this ASAP."  
  
Greg stood quickly, the grin dropping from his face. "Sure, Grissom," he began, fumbling with some test tubes and reports lying on the table in front of him. "Let me just finish—"  
  
"Now, Greg." Grissom dumped the bag on the table on top of the reports. "I'm clearing any overtime." Grissom's gaze then shifted to his right, to the taller, broader man attempting to hide in the corner of the room. "Sorry to break up the party, Nick, but I need you in the conference room with Sara. I'll be with Robbins." Grissom turned and departed, quick strides taking him in the direction of the coroner's office.  
  
Greg sighed, breaking the spell, and began to open the brown paper bag in front of him. "Thanks for the laugh, Nick. Have a feeling it'll be awhile till the next one."  
  
Nick turned to face him on his way out the door. "Let's hope you're not right." Nick continued his way out the door and down the hall to the conference room, leaving Greg alone in his whirring and beeping world of DNA and trace fiber analysis. Greg began to hum to himself as he extracted the samples from the bag, musing at how difficult it can be to put together a puzzle having never seen the expected result. 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer and Summary in Chapter 1  
  
The fluorescent lights were alarmingly bright in the conference room. Nick entered to find Sara sitting in a chair, elbows on the table, her fingers massaging her temples. "Hey, Sara, are you all right?" Sara started, straightening herself and yanking her hands away from her face. "I'm fine. Grissom send you here?"  
  
"Yeah. He told me to join you in here. What do we have?"  
  
Sara inhaled deeply, reaching for a large manila envelope on the table. Exhaling slowly, she opened the envelope and began extracting photographs. "Not much, Nick."  
  
She began showing Nick the photos of the crime scene and summarizing the evidence gathered earlier in the evening. Nick's eyes focused on the small body in the photos, lying motionless on the desert floor, yellow cones marking the height of the victim in relation to the terrain. "Jesus," he breathed. "He's just a kid."  
  
Sara arched her eyebrow, trying to judge the emotion in Nick's face. "True. But now, he's a victim."  
  
Nick stood his head and met her gaze. "Right. You're right." He thought for a moment and sighed. "Should we call Catherine?"  
  
Sara knitted her brows, then abruptly shook her head. "No. Let her have the night with Lindsey. We'll fill her in tomorrow."  
  
"OK. Let's get started."  
  
  
  
"Blow to the back of the head, fractured skull, swelling of brain tissues. There's your cause of death." Robbins gingerly turned the boy's head to the left for Grissom to see the injury. "Small pieces of gravel or something like it around the wound, along with a few fibers."  
  
Grissom tilted his head in inquiry. "Blow to the head? How? Why isn't there any blood?"  
  
Robbins continued, turning the boy's head back to the table to rest face up toward the lights above. "Blow was made with a large, flat, hard object. I found abrasions on his arms and elbows, as well as his knees. Same pieces of gravel stuck in the wounds."  
  
"Gravel." Grissom blinked, filing the information away for his report to his team. "How could he scrape his knees and elbows that badly without ripping his clothing?"  
  
"Given the lack of blood, I'd say his clothes were changed after he died. Your age assessment is right; I'd say he's between the ages of 10 and 13. Time of death: about 6-8 hours ago."  
  
"From 5-7pm. The body hadn't been there long." Grissom blinked again, forehead crinkling. "Flat object, abrasions-hit by a car, head struck the pavement?"  
  
"There's no other bruising or injury to suggest recent impact."  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
Robbins hesitated. "I took a few x-rays of his head to determine the extent of the swelling, and I found a thin healed fracture behind his forehead." Robbins could see Grissom's jaw begin to clench, but continued. "Also a previously broken clavicle. I haven't had a chance to x-ray further."  
  
"Please do," Grissom replied, lips pursed in a grim expression. "Any idea how old the fractures are?"  
  
"Hard to say. A few years, at least. I should have more in a few hours."  
  
"Give me a moment to collect some of the gravel and the fibers. When you finish, page me."  
  
  
  
Grissom headed back to the lab, his brain searing at the events and information of the evening. Boy found dead, possible abuse, only fibers, hairs, and gravel to go on. He clenched his jaw again, grinding his teeth as he strode quickly through the halls. This was going to be difficult, he realized, very difficult to put away in the morning when—  
  
"Hey, Grissom!"  
  
Grissom stopped and looked up, startled, to find Greg standing in front of him. He gritted his teeth once more. "What is it, Greg?"  
  
"I got a hit on the hairs." Greg held a piece of paper in his hand, stretched out toward Grissom. "Terrier."  
  
Grissom blinked at Greg, taking the paper. "Dog hairs?"  
  
"Yep. Terrier. Maybe Yorkshire. Can't stand the little runts myself-"  
  
Grissom cut him off, taking a step forward. "Thanks, Greg. Here's a another group of fibers we found," he said, handing Greg a small clear plastic bag. "Let me know when you get done with everything." He walked away, leaving Greg standing alone in the hall outside his DNA lab.  
  
"You're welcome," Greg mumbled, stalking back into the lab.  
  
  
  
Grissom and the others gathered around the conference room table to begin piecing together their latest case. Grissom cleared his throat and began referring to his notes. "OK, here's what we have from Robbins so far. Blow with large, flat object to the back of the head, gravel and white fibers stuck to the wound. Probable cause of death is cerebral hemorrhage due to skull fracture. Nick," Grissom continued, tossing Nick a small vial, "find out what that gravel is."  
  
"Sure thing."  
  
Grissom continued with his evidence checklist and assigning tasks. "Warrick, keep working the partial shoeprint we collected. Sara, check the clothes for anything that can tell us what happened. Greg's working the fibers found, and got a hit on the hairs—"  
  
Warrick sat up. "All right! We got a suspect?"  
  
"Not unless our suspect was a Yorkshire terrier," Grissom replied, leaving Warrick to slump back in his seat. "Sara, did AFIS return anything from our prints of our victim?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"All right. Look for anything that can give us an ID. Nick, see if you can get a hit from Missing Persons." Grissom removed his glasses and placed them on the table. "This is going to be tough one. I'll analyze photos. Page me if you get anything." Grissom picked up his notebook and the manila envelope of photos and exited the room. 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer and Summary in Chapter 1  
  
Grissom removed his glasses and lifted his fingers to massage his temples. He could feel the beginning of a migraine, a slow pulse deep inside his brain. Yawning, he looked at the clock to check the time. 3:15AM. He'd been staring at the photographs for almost two hours and still he had no new ideas as to what happened to the little boy. His best guess was that the boy had fallen, but he didn't know where or how. Every picture is worth a thousand words, he mused bitterly, but these pictures don't tell me a damn thing. Pushing his chair back from his desk he rose and stretched his arms over his head. Time for some coffee.  
  
  
  
Sara sat in the break room, relaxing from her task of examining the clothing. She had turned the clothing inside out upon the hunch that the boy's clothes were changed after the injuries were inflicted. She did find some small bloodstains and bits of gravel, all meticulously swabbed and bagged and given to Greg. So far, neither she nor Warrick nor Nick had found anything beyond what was collected at the scene, and Sara was becoming frustrated. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, trying to flush her brain for a moment and maybe come up with a new angle.  
  
Grissom stood in the doorway of the break room, watching Sara rotate her neck, eyes closed. He could see the lines of frustration etched on her forehead, but he assumed he sported a similar look himself. Sara rotated her head to her left and Grissom, wincing, could hear the crack from the doorway. When was the last time she got some fresh air? Some sunshine, a good warm stretch in the early morning? Grissom shook his head, wondering the same thing about himself. Crime scene investigating vampires, rarely seeing daylight, fluttering like ghosts through the halls of the lab. How long have I been doing this? How long will she, before she realizes that her whole life is wrapped up in dead bodies and has passed her by and there's nothing else she can do? Will she have the same enthusiasm then, or will she burnout long before....  
  
Sara shrugged her shoulders, releasing some tension from the aching muscles. She opened her eyes and saw Grissom staring at her. Staring through her, actually, eyes faraway and filled with regret, his face soft. Sara watched him, wondering what he was thinking and trying to figure why this case was hitting him so hard. "Gris?"  
  
Grissom shook his head and blinked, confused for a moment before he realized what he had been thinking. "Hey, Sara," he said softly, crossing to the coffeepot and reaching for his mug.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
Grissom nodded as he poured his coffee, carefully replacing the carafe. "I'm fine. A little tired."  
  
Sara nodded as Grissom sank his frame into the couch. "Same here. I got nothing more from the clothes. Found bloodstains inside the sleeves and pant legs. If they match, we'll know that the clothing was changed after death."  
  
"I'm sure it was," Grissom replied, taking a sip of the coffee and licking his upper lip. He looked up at Sara, noticing that her eyes were locked on his face. He blinked again, filing away her concern. "I didn't get anything more from the photos, either…"  
  
Sara knew he was saying something else, but she didn't catch it. Her eyes were still locked on his mouth as he took another sip of coffee and repeated the licking motion, his words floating past her ears. "Sara?"  
  
"Hmm?" She brought herself back to present, tearing her eyes away from his mouth and secretly scolding herself for staring. "Sorry. What?"  
  
"I said that I think we're missing something. I don't know what, but there's something else at the scene."  
  
"What do you think it's could be?"  
  
"Remember Locard's Principle? The killer left something of himself. He had to." Grissom took another drink of coffee, staring at the floor as he swallowed. "We don't have all the pieces of this puzzle, and I'm thinking- "  
  
A shrill repeating beep sounded in the room, causing Sara and Grissom to reach for their hips. Grissom held up his pager, squinting at the display. "It's mine. Robbins."  
  
"The missing piece?"  
  
The corners of Grissom's mouth turned up in a slight smile. "Maybe. Let's go find out."  
  
  
  
Grissom and Sara entered the autopsy bay to find Robbins standing before an array of x-rays, staring intently. Upon hearing their footsteps, Robbins turned to address the pair. "I have the rest of my report for you, Gil."  
  
"What did you find?"  
  
Robbins sighed as he handled a file to Grissom. Sara leaned into Grissom to view the report over his shoulder as Robbins continued. "I'm afraid it's what I thought. Multiple fractures to the ribcage, arms, and legs. Fractured right clavicle, thin fracture to the front of the skull. None related to cause of death, all healed some time ago. I'd estimate the last fracture was to the clavicle about six months ago."  
  
Sara raised her eyes to the wall of x-rays, noting the thin lines appearing in what should have been smooth bone. "This boy was abused." Robbins nodded.  
  
Grissom clenched his jaw once again as he skimmed the report and x-rays. "So we have a boy who was abused, cause of death ruled as cerebral hemorrhage from skull fracture, and no idea who the boy is, much less who did it?" Robbins' eyes dropped to the floor while Sara's eyes locked again onto Grissom's face. His brows were knitted furiously, his thumb burning white where he gripped the folder containing the report. "Son of a bitch."  
  
Grissom raised his eyes back to the x-rays while Robbins and Sara exchanged raised eyebrows. He spoke again, this time addressing the images, "Son of a bitch."  
  
  
  
By sunrise, all analysis had been completed. The team gathered once again in the conference room to compare notes and look over all the materials found. Grissom sat slumped in his chair at the head of the table, his glasses tossed upon the casefile. His blue eyes were fixed on the file, unmoving. Sara noticed this with great concern; even during the Anderson case with the missing baby, Grissom had kept his focus, fought through his attachment to the victim. Since Robbins had delivered the report of his further findings on the victim, Grissom had barely spoken, and Sara was becoming worried. She could understand his previous concerns to her own empathic approach in past cases. Even without his warnings during those times, she could sense her feelings enveloping her, consuming her and clouding her judgment. She had lashed out at Grissom after those cases in part because she was ashamed of the mistakes she could have made during those times, and in part because he was right. She knew that Grissom could read her better than she could read him, but Sara had a feeling that Grissom was holding those same senses of empathy and emotional warfare within himself.  
  
Nick and Warrick exchanged their own looks of concern over Grissom's mental distance. Warrick couldn't recall a time when Grissom had not been in control of a case, although he had seen Grissom's attention slipping since that last run-in with Millander. Millander had unnerved Grissom, Warrick conceded, if anything could shake the man. He wasn't sure exactly what could shake Grissom's foundation, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.  
  
Nick was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. "Well, boss, what do we have?"  
  
Grissom didn't move, and Nick didn't think his question had penetrated Grissom's apparent haze. Just as Nick opened his mouth to ask again, Grissom looked up and slowly reached for his glasses. "Nick, why don't you start?" he sighed as he slipped his glasses into place. Meeting Nick's eyes, he implored further, "What did you make on the gravel?"  
  
"Not much. Asphalt, nothing special. Vegas is paved with the stuff, so I can't use it to narrow down where the injury occurred. Greg gave me the results on the white fibers Robbins found in the wound-white cotton, probably a towel."  
  
"I got the other fibers," Warrick offered, tossing a printed report into the center of the table. "Carpet fibers. Car upholstery. Body was definitely transported."  
  
"Maybe not, Warrick," Grissom disagreed. "The injury could have occurred on the side of the road. The fibers could have been from an earlier instance."  
  
"Maybe. The cast was a bust. Partial matches a running shoe, retailed widely, indeterminate size. Could belong to the killer."  
  
"Could belong to the vic," Sara interjected. "We don't know if we're dealing with an accident or a murder."  
  
"How can you say that, Sara? What the hell would a kid that age be doing that far out of town?"  
  
"I don't know, Nick, but we've seen stranger. Gris and I talked to Robbins," Sara said, sneaking a look at Grissom, who was still staring at the file. "This boy was abused. He could have been running away."  
  
"And he could have been killed by the abuser."  
  
"Nick's right, Sara," Warrick nodded. "We've got the white fibers, which aren't explained from hitchhiking. The clothes were changed after the injuries; there's no blood. The point is-"  
  
"The point is that we don't know." Grissom massaged his temples and closed his eyes as three pairs of eyes snapped to attention upon his face. He gritted his teeth as his low voice continued, "We have no idea what happened to this boy. The evidence, the x-rays, the photos--none of it is giving us the full story. We're missing something, and sitting here talking about it is not going to solve this case." Grissom rose his head, revealing a faraway look in his eyes. He stood up and began a slow stride to the door of the room.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"I'm going back to the crime scene, Warrick," Grissom breathed. "There's something out there and I have to find it." Grissom strode out the door and toward the exit of the building.  
  
Sara, Nick, and Warrick sat in a stunned silence, looking back and forth at each other and the door. Warrick began shaking his head. "Five years I've been here, and I've never seen him like that."  
  
Nick nodded. "What's with him? Why this case?"  
  
"Who knows?" Sara almost whispered. "We know almost nothing about him to figure out why this case."  
  
"And he's right. We've got nothing but dog hairs, fibers, and asphalt. We don't even know who the boy is." Warrick leaned back in his chair, absently scratching his chin. "And I don't know what we could have missed at the crime scene. There wasn't a lot."  
  
"But it was dark," Sara mused, a pensive look on her face. "Gris might be right, we may be missing something."  
  
Nick rolled his eyes. "Man, the last thing I need tonight is you acting all weird, too."  
  
Sara arched her eyebrow at him. "Then maybe you should keep looking over those missing persons reports, Nicky."  
  
Nick opened his mouth to retort but Warrick stopped him with a hand to the shoulder, recognizing the danger in Sara's face. "Sure, Sara, we'll both work on it. What are you gonna do?"  
  
Rising from her chair, Sara answered, "Track down Locard."  
  
She ignored the confused looks coming from Nick and Warrick as she left the room. 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer and Summary in Chapter 1  
  
Sara squinted at the glare of the early morning sunlight reflecting from the back glass of Grissom's Tahoe. The SUV was parked on the side of the road, and Sara could make out his figure standing alone inside the yellow crime tape. Two officers stood outside the taped area, guarding the scene. She pulled behind Grissom's SUV and killed the engine. Sara watched Grissom from the safety of her own vehicle, allowing the dull ache in her chest for a moment. She knew this case was affecting him, that he was losing himself in this victim. She also knew that he had eaten nothing all night and had drunk coffee instead of his usual tea. Sighing, she closed her eyes, wondering how she could reach this impenetrable man. She thought back to the sensation of his face against her palm, the feeling of his roughness under her thumb. Remembering the look on his face and the puzzlement in his eyes, she tried to freeze the moment in her mind.  
  
She knew she wanted more from this man.  
  
She knew she would never get it.  
  
  
  
"Sidle, Crime Lab," Sara informed the officers, holding her ID up with her left hand. She didn't recognize either one. They nodded, one reaching out to lift the tape and allow her to pass under it. Sara cautiously approached Grissom, who was standing motionless ten feet from her. Reaching him, she put her kit down at her feet. "Hey."  
  
"'It has been said that man is a rational animal. All my life I have been searching for evidence which could support this.'" Grissom stared solemnly into the western sky, watching the dark blue streaks slowly disappear as the sun rose higher in the east. "I don't know, Sara. I can't see what I know is in front of me. Something is here; we missed it."  
  
"You keep saying that, but how do you know?"  
  
"Because what we have isn't enough."  
  
Sara blinked, shook her head almost imperceptibly, the meaning escaping her. "We've had less."  
  
Grissom turned to look at her, and Sara was struck by the haunted look in his eyes. "But this boy deserves more."  
  
"Gris, I know this is a difficult crime, but.," she stammered, losing herself in that look, a wave of sympathetic pain coursing through her. She stepped forward, lightly placing her hand on his arm. "Gris, I'm worried about you."  
  
The haunted look disappeared as a defensive wall rose to cover it. Tilting his head slightly, he asked, "Why?"  
  
"Because you haven't eaten. Because you're not being yourself. Because you're acting like me." Sara glanced down at her shoes, unsure of how to proceed. "You speak to me of emotional detachment from the victim, of being careful not to become personally invested in every case-"  
  
"But this is different," Grissom insisted. He stepped away from her, his jaw working to form the words. "This case is-"  
  
"Special?"  
  
Their eyes locked for a moment, Sara's filled with concern; Grissom's eyes flashed with anger. "Thank you, Sara, for your opinion. Duly noted." His tone was ice. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." Grissom turned his back to her, bending down to pull a pair of gloves out of his kit.  
  
His tone and his attempt to shut her off inflamed Sara. "Sure, Gris, I'll let you get back to it. I'd forgotten you had moved up to chasing rabbits."  
  
Grissom froze, slowly turning back to her. Through clenched teeth, he answered her retort. "I am trying to do my job."  
  
"That's just it, Gris. You're not doing your job." He looked at her blankly. Sara continued, almost growling, "We have fibers, asphalt, changed clothing, a partial shoeprint, dog hairs, an abused little boy, and no name or suspect. Instead of running a sketch on the news, or talking to Brass about canvassing the neighborhoods near here, you're prospecting for evidence in the desert!" She paused, trying to lower her voice, trying to lower her pulse. "And everyone can see this but you. Even me, and you're constantly on my back about getting too involved. If I can see it, Grissom, why can't you?"  
  
Grissom was silent. Sara moved toward him again, reaching out and touching his cheek, stifling the low hum in her body upon the sensation of his face under her palm again. She met his eyes and softened her voice. "Look, I'm not saying that this is a bad idea. Locard's Principle, right? It doesn't hurt to take another look and see what may have been hidden in the dark. But don't let this obsession over missing evidence cloud your judgment in using the other tools at our disposal." His eyes were focused on hers, and Sara, sliding her thumb against his cheek, could feel the urge to melt there. Fighting the impulse, she continued, "Please, let's get a good sketch of the child. Let Brass pound the pavement. Set up a hotline. Let's do everything we can to find this killer."  
  
Grissom kept his eyes locked on Sara's, her touch burning him as he tried to process everything she was saying. She's right, I've fucked it up…. He briefly closed his eyes, slightly turning his face into her touch. The contact between them was the only thing grounding him now, his mind whirling with confusion, shame, anger and longing. He felt an odd sensation in his chest, a knot that seemed to float under his sternum, and opened his eyes again, noting that hers had not moved. Reaching up to cover her hand in his, the decision clicked into his mind with a jolt. Lowering her hand and holding it between both of his, he drew a deep breath and answered her. "Thank you. You're right." Releasing her hand, he stepped to the side and gestured to her kit while nodding his head. "You're right, let's solve this case."  
  
  
  
"Hey, Gris, come look at this!" Sara straightened her back from her bent position, wiping her arm across her forehead. The sun had come up fast, and the desert was quickly growing warmer.  
  
"What did you find?" Grissom asked from behind her, still making his way to where she stood.  
  
"I'm not sure, but take a look." She squatted down and pointed at the dry ground. "This area is swept free of sand, exposing the cracks in the desert floor, while the surrounding area is covered by a thin layer of sand." The area Sara had marked was trapezoid shaped, about a square foot in size.  
  
"Swept clean?" Grissom bent down next to her, peering at the shape on the ground. "Swept…." Grissom tilted his head slightly, and then his eyes widened. "White fibers, in the wound. Probably from a towel—"  
  
"The boy's head was wrapped. The towel was pulled free when the body was dumped," Sara finished.  
  
Grissom nodded. "Warrick may be right; the body may have been transported."  
  
Sara looked at Grissom sharply upon his use of the word 'body'. She noted that till now, she couldn't peg a time since the case began that he had referred to the victim as anything other than a boy. "If so, then the partial print would belong to the killer."  
  
"Right!" Grissom stood. "I think we found it, Sara. The missing piece."  
  
Sara rose with him, smiling at the excitement infusing Grissom's face. "You were right. Let check out the photos and confirm it."  
  
Grissom nodded again. "And we have just enough time to catch Brass and start the sketch."  
  
"Let's go." Sara stooped down again to collect her kit. As she stood and began to walk to her Tahoe, something caught her eye about six feet away. "Gris?"  
  
Grissom, packing his kit to leave, looked up absently at the mention of his name. "What?"  
  
"Do you see what I see?"  
  
Sara was staring at a fishhook cactus intently, her head slightly cocked to her right. Grissom followed her gaze to the cactus, noticing a small dot of blue clinging to one of the curved yellow needles. "What is that?"  
  
Sara already had her tweezers and a bag, and was slowly approaching the cactus. She caught the dot with her tweezers and held it up into the sunlight. "Hello, you," she addressed the unknown object.  
  
Grissom had come up behind Sara and peered over her shoulder to look at the item retrieved. "Fabric. Navy."  
  
"Pants, maybe?"  
  
"Possibly. Looks like our killer was snagged on the way in or out."  
  
Sara bagged the tiny piece of fabric, her smile beaming across her face. "Two pieces. Lucky. You might want to try the genius crossword puzzle today."  
  
Grissom gave a slight grin back, reaching out to touch her arm, turning her to him slightly.  
  
"Thank you again, Sara. For…coming out here, and…."  
  
"You're welcome, Gris." Her eyes held an odd twinkle, and she leaned toward him, whispering in a conspiratorial tone, "Payback's a bitch, ain't it?"  
  
With a cryptic smile, Sara collected her kit and strode off to her SUV, leaving Grissom standing in the crime area. He watched her as she left, the corner of his mouth curved up in another slight grin. Yeah, Sara. Pure hell. 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer and Summary in Chapter 1  
  
Grissom was now home, stretched out on his sofa with his eyes closed. He had caught Brass at the station and persuaded him to follow Sara's idea of putting a sketch on the news and opening a hotline. Brass had also promised to send some officers out with the sketch to the neighborhoods at the far end of the Strip to try to shake out a few leads. Sara had confirmed the swept area of the crime scene in the photos, and Grissom was pretty certain they knew how the body has gotten there.  
  
Grissom shifted his ankles over the arm of his sofa, thinking of Sara's face during her inspection of the photos. When she found the shot, she vibrated with the energy of it, the thrill of putting another piece into place. Grissom smiled with the recollection. His migraine medication was taking effect, and he usually found it difficult not to smile in these moments as the pain began to recede. She had been so happy to find the area and build a workable theory. She had wanted to go with Brass, but Grissom forced her to go home. He had to promise to call her as soon as they got a good lead before she would agree.  
  
Yawning, he reached behind his head and repositioned his pillow. His glasses were tossed on his coffee table, next to his cell phone, pager, and cordless phone. He willed them not to ring within the next three hours. He yawned again and slung his right arm over his eyes, drifting into a Fioricet slumber.  
  
  
  
The shrill ring of the cellphone broke Grissom's sleep, jarring him away from his vivid, drug-induced dreams. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock on the wall. Two and a half-hours. Close. Reaching out, he grabbed the phone and flipped it open. "Grissom."  
  
"Brass. We've got a lead."  
  
Grissom sat up abruptly, ignoring the stab of pain in his brain that came with the motion. "What do you have?"  
  
"Seven calls from the hotline identifying the kid as Joey Zucker. All peg him at an apartment complex on the 4000 block of Paradise Road."  
  
"Give me the address and I'll meet you there." Grissom listened to Brass' voice, making a mental note as he fumbled on his coffee table for his notebook and pen.  
  
"You want me to call Sara?"  
  
"No, I promised." Grissom hesitated. "I'll need a ride, anyway."  
  
"Migraine?"  
  
Grissom didn't answer. "We'll meet you at the apartment." He disconnected Brass and began dialing the number to Sara's wireless phone.  
  
  
  
Sara didn't realize she had dozed off on her sofa until her phone began to ring. She fought it out of her pocket, answering it after the second ring. "Yeah?"  
  
"Did I wake you?"  
  
Upon hearing Grissom's voice her eyes widened and she suppressed all evidence of her exhaustion. "No, I was just—"  
  
"We have a name and an address. Brass is meeting us there."  
  
She picked up her notebook and flipped it open, sliding her pen out of its loop. "What is it? I'll be right there."  
  
"Sara?" Sara listened to the moment of silence before Grissom continued. "I took some medication. Could you give me a ride to the complex?"  
  
Sara closed her eyes upon hearing his slight sigh. She knew he had another migraine, and it must be bad if he took his medication while actively on a case. "Yes. How do I get to your house?" She jotted down his address as he gave it, detecting a bit of a dreamy slur to his words. "OK, give me ten minutes." Sara began to pull the phone away from her ear when she heard him call her name again. "Yeah, Gris?"  
  
"I'll fill you in on the way there. You're the lead."  
  
The meaning of his words sunk into her brain as she realized the position he was in this morning. "OK, Gris. Ten minutes." She flipped her phone closed and headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth before picking up her boss.  
  
  
  
Grissom drew a deep breath and replaced his phone to the table. Nothing for him to do now but count the minutes until Sara arrived.  
  
  
  
Grissom was standing outside his townhouse when Sara arrived, his kit in hand and dark sunglasses covering his eyes. Sara pulled to the curb to let Grissom into the SUV; she saw him wince as he pulled the passenger door shut after him. "Gris, are you sure you're up to this?"  
  
Buckling his seat belt, he answered, "Yes, I'm fine."  
  
"You don't look fine. You're pale, your eyes are photosensitive, and you're obviously in pain. You should stay here. Brass and I can handle this. I can page Warrick—"  
  
"No," Grissom cut her words off vehemently. He handed her the piece of paper with the address of the apartment. "I'm fine. I'm going. Drive."  
  
Sara sighed as she pulled the Tahoe into the street, catching a glance at his stony face from the corner of her eye. At times like this, he could be infuriating, and she could feel her anger bubbling beneath her skin. Grissom had no business going to the apartment like this, or making her lead on the case without explanation. Her thoughts drifted back to their conversation earlier this morning. She had thought she had gotten through to him about his personal feelings coloring this case, but he had retreated back in his fortress of a brain. Whether his retreat was driven by the headache, the medication, or his own damn stubborn choice, she didn't know. She tried to tell herself she didn't care either, but she did. She wondered now why she bothered to care about him at all.  
  
Grissom marveled at the difference in color of this city through his sunglasses. Watching the asphalt in front of them, he idly pondered why a city bringing in as much money through tourism as Las Vegas could not be bothered to paint lines between the lanes. He struggled through his cloud of a mind to bring himself back to the case, but it was difficult. Looking at the tiny digital clock in the SUV, he calculated an hour until the medicine wore off and he could think clearly again. He was angry with himself for going to a potential scene like this, but he couldn't stay in his home alone and receive the information of the visit from another source. Judging by the way Sara was darting through traffic at an accelerated speed, he could guess that she was irritated, and probably at him. He wasn't sure.  
  
Looking out the window to the roller coaster on top of New York, New York, he wondered if he remembered to feed his pet tarantula this morning. 


	6. Chapter 6

The gates to the controlled access community stood open in the entrance from Paradise Road, allowing Sara to maneuver the SUV past the fountain and into the maze of connecting thoroughfares surrounding the apartment buildings. The sun was bright now at 9:18am, and Grissom thought the three story buildings shone almost like alabaster from the reflection of light off the cream stucco exteriors. It had taken a silent twenty minutes to reach the complex, and Grissom guided Sara through the maze using his earlier notes from Brass. His mind was beginning to clear, yet he knew he did not possess his sharp CSI eyesight, which he might need on the this visit.  
  
Sara parked the SUV behind a cluster of law enforcement vehicles, shifting the engine into park and shutting it off with a quick turn of the key. She reached for the door handle, her swift movements belying her irritation. Grissom cleared his throat. "Sara, wait a moment."  
  
Sara kept her hand on the handle of the door, looking past the steering wheel to the vehicles ahead. "What?"  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm not myself this morning."  
  
"OK."  
  
"No, it's not. I need you to be lead because I'm not focused enough to do it. I'm here because I have to be."  
  
Sara gave him a cool look, measuring his expression and his sincerity. "All right. As lead, I think you can be here." She pulled the handle to open the door and stepped outside the Tahoe, then regarded Grissom with another glance. "Just don't fuck up my crime scene." She slammed the door with force, causing Grissom to wince. He watched her in the sideview mirror as she walked to the back of the vehicle to retrieve her kit. Sighing, he reached for the handle of his door to let himself out into bright morning.  
  
  
  
Several officers already stood in the parking lot, milling around and waiting for a sign from someone to work to move to another location. Brass appeared from the group and walked toward Sara and Grissom. "OK, here's what we have—"  
  
"Talk to me, Brass. I'm lead."  
  
Brass raised an eyebrow at Grissom, who raised an eyebrow in response. Brass turned to address Sara. "Colleen Mandel, age 35, gave an ID for the kid. Joey Zucker, 11 years old, foster son. She and her husband Oscar, 37, have another foster kid, Darrell Wilson, age 16."  
  
"Did she notice the younger one missing?" Sara asked, her face somewhat grimaced. Grissom surmised she was already running possible answers through her mind for possible motives, and glanced down at the asphalt beneath his feet. He noticed rubber marks, black, red, and blue, forming lines at various intervals across the sealed gravel.  
  
"She thought Joey was staying with a friend. Says Darrell told her. She works midshift at a hospital as a lab tech. She called the friend's house this morning, found out he wasn't there, and called to file a Missing Persons report."  
  
"Warrick or Nick find the report?"  
  
"No, they went home earlier. One of my guys called me with it."  
  
Sara furrowed her brows, focusing her sight on Brass' lapel. "Anyone talking? Anything suspicious?"  
  
Brass shrugged. "The older kid's nervous, but who knows? We haven't looked around at all. We were waiting for you."  
  
Sara sneaked a glance at Grissom while chewing on her lower lip. "OK. Let's get statements from Mom, Dad, and the kid on whereabouts, the usual. Gris and I will take a look inside and see what we can find." Brass nodded and headed back to the group of officers to hand out assignments for the statements. Sara turned to Grissom, "Let's see if anything sticks out at us. If so, we get all hands on deck. I want this done." She turned her back to Grissom again and began her way to the stairs leading to the second story apartment held by the Mandels. Grissom picked up his kit and followed closely behind her.  
  
  
  
Grissom slowly picked his way through the hallway into the small room off the right side. The apartment was a standard two-bedroom, with this room being the smaller of the two. The floor was covered with clothing; the walls were plastered with movie and music posters, torn magazine artwork, and the occasional awkward drawing. A set of oak bunkbeds, the bottom bed full size and the top one twin size, were pushed against the far wall between the window and the closet. Grissom began snapping photos of the room from his vantagepoint in the doorway. A pair of rollerblades were tossed into the open closet, among a jumble of sneakers and a couple pair of Sunday loafers. A desk stood near the door, covered with a few glasses, a crumb-filled plate, a framed picture, and some school papers. Amid the snaps of the camera and the whir of spooling film, Grissom could hear the voices of Sara, Brass, and Mrs. Mandel, as the woman was questioned about her younger foster son's disappearance. He continued taking photos of the items in the room, trying to find any clues to what may have happened to the boy.  
  
Sara completed her talk with Mrs. Mandel, leaving the woman with Brass to finish giving her statement. She turned to the hallway, where she could see Grissom's form in the doorway of the children's bedroom, the flashes of the camera providing backlight into the darkness of the hall. As she began to turn back to Brass, Grissom called out for her.  
  
"Yeah, Gris?"  
  
"I think I see something here."  
  
Sara reached the bedroom and stood on tiptoe to peer over Grissom's shoulder. She was taken aback by the disarray of clothing on the floor, wondering what Grissom could possibly see. "What is it?"  
  
Stepping aside to give Sara a better view, Grissom pointed at the floor near the bottom of the full size bunk bed. "Does that look like a towel to you?"  
  
Sara looked at the direction in which Grissom was pointing, and could see the corner of a white piece of fabric poking out from underneath the bed. Without responding, she deftly crossed the debris and kneeled in front of the piece of fabric in view. "Did you get a picture of this?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
She began to pull the fabric out from under the bed, using her other hand to pick up the slack as the item began to billow out from its crumpled form.  
  
It was a white bath towel, stained with blood.  
  
Sara looked up at Grissom, who holding his breath. "You must be feeling better if you were able to catch this."  
  
"A little bit."  
  
"Let Brass know that I want to take Darrell in for questioning. Have Children's Services meet us at the lab. Let's page everyone and get this room processed. I think we've almost got it."  
  
Grissom nodded wordlessly, and disappeared down the hall.  
  
Sara studied the towel again, letting her shoulders slump as her exhaustion began to take over. She placed the towel into a brown paper bag, a sticker reading EVIDENCE in bright red letters securing the fold. Standing, she surveyed the room once again, straightening her shoulders.  
  
It was time to obtain a warrant and close this case. 


	7. Chapter 7

Sara dragged her feet into the break room, her tunnel vision focused on the coffeepot. Nick and Warrick were working the scene, and Brass was talking to Darrell Wilson in one of the interrogation rooms. So far, he had said nothing about the towel or Joey Zucker. As she reached for her mug, a voice from behind startled her. "How long have you been awake?"  
  
Catherine sat at the table with a cup of coffee, reviewing the case notes and photos from the night before. She raised her eyes to meet Sara's face, noting the dark circles under the eyes and thin lines in the younger woman's forehead. "I'd bet almost 24 hours."  
  
Sara smiled in spite of herself while pouring her own cup of coffee. "Almost."  
  
"How's he holding up?"  
  
"Who?" Sara asked, pulling up a chair to sit across from Catherine.  
  
"Who do you think? Grissom." Catherine studied Sara's reaction, the subtle shift in seating and the grip on her coffee mug.  
  
"He's tired, been up too long. He was drinking coffee last night."  
  
Catherine raised an eyebrow. "Did he have a headache?"  
  
Sara looked up sharply. "Yeah, he had a migraine earlier today, but—"  
  
"He only drinks coffee when the headache is really bad. The caffeine gives him some relief."  
  
"Oh." Sara stared in her cup at the smooth surface of the dark liquid inside. "Catherine, he, um…. He worried me today. He was getting really personal, almost like I do. He seemed almost possessed last night."  
  
Catherine leaned back in her chair, nodding. "This is one of his trigger cases. I've only seen it a few times."  
  
"Trigger case?"  
  
"Gil can get hooked whenever kids are involved; drugs, abuse, sexual abuse all get under his skin. He's been getting better, but I don't know what it is about this kid that has him so out of sorts.."  
  
"He's still upset?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Catherine answered, raising her mug to her lips for another drink. "I stuck my head in his office to say hello, let him know that Lindsey and I had a great time at the circus yesterday, and his hands began to shake. He didn't say a word to me." She paused again, taking a second sip. "Lousy timing on my part."  
  
The corners of Sara's mouth turned up, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "Something like that." She set the half-empty mug onto the surface of the table. "I should get back. See if this kid has said anything we can use yet."  
  
"Good luck, Sara. You know you'll solve this."  
  
"I wish I could be so sure."  
  
Catherine regarded Sara's drawn face, the doubt in her eyes. "You'll solve it because he would solve it."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You're both more alike than you know. What he can do, you can do, sometimes better…." Catherine took another closer look at her, deciding to take a bit of a leap. "And what you can hide, Sara, he can hide just as well."  
  
Sara eyes widened as she stood before Catherine, wondering if her interpretation of that last remark matched Catherine's intent. She opened her mouth to respond, then shook her head, briskly walking to the door and out of the break room.  
  
Catherine reclined back into her chair with her case notes, the smile curving around her lips like the cream in her coffee.  
  
  
  
Nick and Warrick processed the boys' bedroom, looking for evidence which could tell the story of Joey Zucker's death. Closer examination under the bed yielded no items beyond the towel. Warrick concentrated on picking his way through the dirtied clothing on the floor, while Nick pushed a dresser drawer shut, hard, with frustration. "How do we know that's the towel?" he fumed, exasperated. "This is a snipe hunt."  
  
"Maybe, maybe not," replied Warrick, examining a pair of blue jeans.  
  
"Are we even sure what we're looking for?"  
  
"Evidence." Warrick set aside the jeans, reaching for a green T-shirt.  
  
Nick pursed his lips, his chin and nose crinkling with disgust. "Thanks for the clarification. That was real helpful."  
  
Warrick dropped the shirt and rose from his squatting position. "What's with you? You've been pissy since we got here."  
  
"Nothing. Just how the hell do we find anything in this shit?"  
  
"The way we always do, Nick. By doing our jobs." Warrick studied his pal, observing the discoloration under his eyes and the paleness of his face. "You didn't get any sleep, either, huh?"  
  
"What?" Nick opened his mouth again, then hesitated, realizing that he could not bluff Warrick. "No. No, I didn't."  
  
"And Grissom's behavior isn't helping, is it?"  
  
Nervous animation overtook Nick's face as he began to reply. "No, I mean, what's with him? He was weird last night, and then he was like a zombie when we got here today. And Sara's the lead?" Nick shook his head. "The whole situation ain't right."  
  
"I'm not sure it is, either, but you can't let Grissom's mood influence your work."  
  
"Why not? He's so off on this case, and I've never seen him like this before. Usually, he's so—"  
  
"Cool? Collected? Damn, Nick, the man's human. Just like us. Why shouldn't he get a little freaked?"  
  
"But—"  
  
"But nothin', man." Warrick's green eyes flashed, and he reached his hand up to his face to rub his forehead. "We all get affected, in some way or another, by the shit we see every day. Some days you deal better than others. But you can't let Grissom be your measure of how you handle a case." Warrick could see Nick's expression grow pensive. "He'll figure out a way to deal with, however he does. And you need to find your own way, and quick, or Sara will tan your hide if you screw up her case."  
  
Nick's frame slouched, his head hanging in exhaustion and shame. "All right. I'm sorry, man, and I don't want Sara coming down on my ass." Nick made eye contact with Warrick, offering a half-hearted grin in apology. "How about I start going through that closet and break this case wide open?"  
  
Warrick rolled his eyes. "Whatever, man. I'm gonna be on this floor, finding the stuff that'll put this to bed."  
  
"Care to put your money where your mouth is?"  
  
Warrick regarded Nick intensely, considering the possibilities.  
  
  
  
Stifling a yawn, Sara shuffled down the bright hallway to the interrogation rooms. Day shift employees passed her with nary a glance, which was fine by her given her current mood. Her brain was still processing her earlier conversation with Catherine, puzzling over the seasoned investigator's last statement. Could Catherine see what Sara had been trying so hard to hide? The thought made her tremble slightly, not from embarrassment, but from Catherine's implication that Grissom might feel something of a similar nature. She wasn't sure if she could accept the idea at face value. Her tired brain could interpret the words in any number of ways, and Sara recognized the fact that Grissom had not done much in the way of showing his true feelings on the subject. Sure, she mused, he had sent her the spider plant in a bid to keep her at the lab, and had made that cryptic remark about becoming interested in beauty since he met her, but Grissom was Grissom: obtuse, introspective, deeply retreated within himself. There was no way of knowing how he felt about his choice of take out for lunch, much less trying to read his mind for signs of romance.  
  
Coming to the door of the fishbowl room, Sara tried to push those thoughts out of her exhausted mind and focus on the case at hand. Brass had been grilling Darrell Wilson about the towel, and she couldn't afford any distractions right now, not until this case was over and she could go home and sleep.  
  
As she placed her hand on the doorknob of the fishbowl, her wireless phone rang. Seeing Nick's number on the display, she answered. "What have you got?"  
  
"How about everything you need to blow this case open?"  
  
The wide smile covered Sara's face as she considered the possibilities. 


	8. Chapter 8

Sara studied her notes, half-listening to the conversation on taking place on the other side of the glass. Through the two-way mirror, she could see Darrell still protesting, claiming ignorance of the bloody towel found under his bed. Brass sat across the table from Darrell, his face set in his usual expression of distrust. The young woman sitting next to Darrell wore a similar expression, unusual for a child's advocate in this room.  
  
Sara frowned. She looked again at her notes from Nick's call. He and Warrick had found a set of bloodstained clothing shoved in the back corner of the boys' closet, along with a pair of inline skates. The skates were also bloodstained, and the left one had a long groove scraped on the side with asphalt gravel embedded in the groove. The stained clothing should make the case open and shut, but the skates-  
  
The door to the fishbowl room slammed open, breaking Sara's thoughts. Grissom covered the distance from the door to Sara quickly, his face red and his eyes flashing. "When were planning on telling me about the clothing?"  
  
"How did you-"  
  
"Greg's doing the analysis right now," Grissom spat out, his anger still focused on Sara. "He told me where the clothing was found."  
  
"I was going to report the finding as soon as we confirmed whose blood was on the clothes." Sara fought to remain calm. She found herself frightened and incensed over Grissom's behavior. "I want to make sure we have all the evidence before we confront Darrell."  
  
"Dammit, Sara, you should have paged me when the clothing was brought in."  
  
"As the lead, knowing your attachment, I chose not to." She stood tall in front of Grissom, certain that despite his anger, her decision had been correct.  
  
Grissom's eyes narrowed. "You won't need to worry about that anymore."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I'm taking the case back. And it's time to stop playing with this kid and find out what the hell happened."  
  
Sara drew in a sharp breath, her eyes flashing along with Grissom's. "The hell you are! Don't you dare compromise my case."  
  
"Weren't you listening, Sara? It's not your case anymore."  
  
Sara eyes burned hot with tears. Blinking them away, she took a step toward Grissom, but he was gone as quickly as he had come in the room. She clenched her fists and tried to breathe, to regain control, when she heard his voice again, over the speaker from the interrogation room.  
  
"It's over, Darrell. We found the clothing."  
  
Sara glared at Grissom through the glass, ignoring the reflection of her angered face. "Son of a bitch," she whispered. Grissom placed his hands on the table next to Brass, glaring at Darrell, his teeth clenched. She heard his voice again, tinny, almost faraway.  
  
"About time you told us what happened."  
  
Darrell was caught under Grissom's glare, his eyes wide and his face pale. He shook his head, his throat constricting from the effort of forming words.  
  
Grissom continued, as a man possessed, his eyes blazing fire. "Why'd you kill Joey, Darrell? Why'd you lie about the towel? You put it there after you killed him, didn't you? Tried to hide the evidence."  
  
Brass rose, his face now a picture of concern as he took Grissom's arm and tried to pull him away from the table. Brass was whispering to Grissom, but Sara couldn't hear the words. She remained frozen, watching through the glass, shocked at Grissom's words. He wasn't himself, he was too close to this case, and his actions were proving it. Sara raged at him, all thoughts purged from her mind except for her white-hot anger. Despite what he had said, she was still the lead. She had warned him, and now he would have to face her.  
  
Brass began pulling Grissom out of the room by the arm, as Grissom continued to berate Darrell. "Tell us how you did it? Did you enjoy it? We have the evidence-why are you lying?"  
  
Darrell was shaking, tears spilling down his face and his mouth locked open. Brass got Grissom out into the hall, and as the child's advocate put her arm around the distraught teenager, Sara rushed out into the hall.  
  
Brass had Grissom pinned against the wall by the shoulders, and had already begun the questioning. "What the hell is wrong with you?"  
  
"The kid's lying, Jim. We have the proof. Greg has the clothes."  
  
"That's not what I meant. What's crawling up your ass, Gil?"  
  
Sara folded her arms across her chest, regarding Grissom with an icy stare. "I told you not to fuck up my case."  
  
Grissom hitched a hollow laugh. "It's not your case, Sara."  
  
"Bullshit. You're obviously not of a good mindset to run it."  
  
Brass let go of Grissom but stayed close, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up with the tension between these two investigators. Grissom gave a twisted grin to Sara as Brass stood at attention. "I'm your supervisor. You can't make that call."  
  
"Wanna bet?" The air between them crackled and grew thick. Sara focused entirely on Grissom, barely noticing Brass standing so near. Her anger was wavering, becoming replaced by worry, but she kept her front solid and continued. "Catherine's responding to a robbery, Warrick is still at the Mandel's apartment, and Nick is in Trace. You want Nick to decide?"  
  
Grissom's breathing became heavier, his anger growing at Sara's resistance. "I thought you of all people would understand this."  
  
Sara blinked back hot tears again, trying to keep her voice from wavering. "I do, Gris. That's why I'm doing this." She turned to Brass. "Grissom is taking the rest of the night off. Please escort him home."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me, Gris. You're off my case. You need sleep, and I can't risk any further damage to this interrogation." She sighed. "I'll keep it quiet. Tell the others you still have a headache. But if you come back to tonight, you'll have to face me. And you know what I'm capable of."  
  
Grissom's posture changed as he slumped his shoulder against the wall. His eyes were focused in the distance, and Sara could see that he had already left the conversation. She again turned to Brass. "Make sure he gets something to eat, gets some sleep. Tie him down if you have to. Just make sure he's gonna be OK."  
  
Brass nodded, concerned, as he took Grissom's arm again and led him toward the parking lot.  
  
Sara leaned back against the cold wall, closing her eyes. Grissom's confusion was tearing her apart and she felt like a bitch. She wiped the back of her hand against her eyelids, feeling moisture. She took a minute to draw deep breaths into her lungs, slow her pulse, and calm down before turning to walk back into the interrogation room.  
  
Darrell was still shaking, and the advocate had her arm around his shoulders, whispering soothingly into his ear. Sara opened his mouth to apologize for the incident, but Darrell's words struck her first:  
  
"I didn't kill Joey. I didn't kill nobody. I swear, it was an accident!"  
  
He began crying again as Sara tried to hold herself together. She wanted to curl up into a fetal position and plug her ears to hide from everything she had seen tonight. Sighing, she pulled up a chair.  
  
"Ok, Darrell. Why don't you tell me about it?" 


	9. Chapter 9

Nick looked at Sara as she entered the room, noting the creases forming in her forehead and around her mouth. She carried a loose stack of paper and began speaking without making eye contact.  
  
"All right, guys. Give me the picture."  
  
"I thought you got your statement," Warrick replied, placing a t-shirt onto the surface of the large table in front of him.  
  
"I did. I need you guys to flesh it out, make sure the statement matches the evidence."  
  
Nick sighed. "OK, Sara. Here's what we've got."  
  
Warrick gestured at the items on the table. "One white towel, bloodstained. One t-shirt, medium, blood on the front. One pair of jeans with pieces of gravel stuck to it.."  
  
"One inline skate, size 8, long groove on the back and side," Nick continued. "Piece of gravel in groove and on the skate are consistent with what we collected from the body."  
  
"So you have a scratched skate and dirty jeans? What does that tell you?" Sara asked, moving closer to inspect the skate.  
  
"We're getting there," Warrick answered. "The skate has a smudged print- smeared blood. I've also got a pair of skater pants, navy blue, size 32 waist. Too big for the victim."  
  
"What's so special about the skater pants?"  
  
Nick pointed to the knee on the right leg. "Small tear. Fabric matches the piece you found on the cactus at the dump site."  
  
Sara released an explosive breath, her fingers rising to the bridge of her nose. "I see. Put the pieces together for me."  
  
Warrick began ahead of Nick. "I think it went down like this. Joey was wearing the skates, probably in the complex parking lot. The skates are Darrell's; too big for Joey's feet. Joey lost his balance, fell backward, scraping the skate and his elbows against the asphalt."  
  
"He probably hit head hard, either on a curb or the lot itself," Nick interjected. "The print on the skate is Darrell's-he tried to take the skates off. Took Joey upstairs, put the towel against his head.."  
  
"After that, we're not sure," Warrick admitted. "Darrell was at the scene, dumped the body. Between the fall and the dump-who knows what happened?"  
  
"I know," said Sara, placing the stack of papers on the table. "Darrell's statement." She gestured her hand toward the stack. "Darrell's account meshes with yours-Joey took the skates, Darrell didn't know. He heard Joey yell from the fall. He took Joey to their bedroom and gave him an aspirin. Joey said he was sleepy. Darrell came back twenty minutes later."  
  
"Let me guess," Nick began, "Darrell freaked. He changed Joey's clothes, hid the t-shirt, jeans, and skates in the closet." Nick's brow furrowed. "How did Darrell get Joey to dump site?"  
  
Sara read from the statement. "He borrowed his friend's car-'96 Celica. Police are impounding it now. The upholstery fibers we lifted should be a match."  
  
"I don't get it," Warrick stated. "Why didn't Darrell call 911? Why didn't he come clean?"  
  
"He was scared," Nick answered, his eyes unfocused. "How would he tell the Mandels? What if the state took him away?"  
  
"You got it. Darrell thought it was just a fall-that's why he says he didn't call 911. He said he'd fallen before like that himself and just got a hell of a headache. When he found Joey dead, he panicked."  
  
"And the whole thing was an accident, covered by a scared teenager?" Warrick shook his head as Sara merely nodded in response.  
  
"What's the charge?" Nick asked.  
  
Sara's shoulders slumped before she answered. "I don't know. That's up to the D.A. The cover-up is enough to hold him for now."  
  
"You told Grissom yet?"  
  
"Not yet." As she turned to leave, she realized that she wasn't looking forward to telling Grissom, either.  
  
"More coffee, Jim? Isn't it time for you to go home?" Catherine's held a slight smile as Brass poured coffee into the nearest mug.  
  
"Yeah, right. After the night I've had? I have to do something besides babysitting at some point." He took a small sip from the mug and grimaced. "How long has this been sitting out?"  
  
"Your guess is as good as mine-I just got back," Catherine answered, taking another bite of her salad as Brass added sugar to his beverage. Speaking from the side of her mouth, she asked, "How is Grissom, anyway?"  
  
"Right now, who knows?. He was pissed earlier." Brass pulled a chair from under the break table and took a seat, leaning forward with a barely suppressed grin. "You heard what happened?"  
  
Catherine leaned forward. "It's the talk of the building. Sara put the smackdown on Gil. He must have been pleased," she smirked.  
  
"You have no idea." Brass paused for another sip. "I don't know what the deal is with this case, or with him and Sara, but he was burned up something bad about it."  
  
"Burned," Catherine mused. "That's one word for it."  
  
Brass continued, barely noticing her comment. "You shoulda seen it-she stood up straight in his face-" Brass sat upright, shoulders back, mimicking Sara, "'I told you not to fuck up my case.'"  
  
Catherine stared at Brass, her smile curling. "You're kidding! She said that?"  
  
"Hell, yeah. 'Grissom will be taking the night off. Please escort him home.'" Brass drank again, his eyes squinting. "Lemme tell you-I don't ever want to piss that woman off."  
  
"Damn; I can't believe she did that."  
  
"Girl's got a spine-and a temper. I pity Gil for crossing her." Brass rose from his seat and crossed to the counter, pouring the rest of his coffee into the sink. "See ya, Cath. Like I said: I gotta do something for the paycheck." He left the room, leaving Catherine alone at the table. She remained there, bemused, for a few moments before continuing her lunch. 


	10. Chapter10

Gil Grissom stretched his arms above his head and yawned, pressing his feet against the arm of the couch beneath him and arching his back above the cushions. He sat up slowly, expecting the stabbing pain to come, and smiling when it didn't. He yawned again, closing his eyes tightly and pushing his palms forward into the air, trying the push the lingering cobwebs of his medication away from him. Blinking his eyes to clear the haze, he could just make out the hands of the clock on the wall: 8:45. About twelve hours had passed since Brass had called with the Missing Persons ID. 'And only about five hours since Sara kicked your ass out of the lab, buddy.'  
  
Sighing, Grissom reached his right arm over to click on his table lamp, rising as the low light filled the austere room. A slight glare reflected from the glass covering his assorted butterflies, hung neatly and squarely on the painted cinder block wall. He bent to retrieve a remote control from the surface of the coffee table and surely pressed a button with his thumb; low music filled the room, the underlying bass slightly amplified. Dropping the remote, he turned to his left to begin the short trek to his kitchen, stumbling into an armchair and banging a bare toe. He peered at the armchair, placed there by Catherine a few weeks ago when she had come for dinner. Every time she visited, she rearranged his furniture, insisting he needed more flow and energy in his surroundings. He sidestepped the chair, the smile returning to his face as he continued to the kitchen.  
  
His coffeepot was still on, and Brass' empty mug sat on his counter above it. Jim had only stayed long enough to finish his coffee and make sure Grissom intended to stay home. He poured himself a cup, reasoning that he would need it if he wanted to go back to the lab tonight. Blowing into his mug to cool the surface of the bitter liquid, he wondered whether he dared go back, given Sara's mood when last they spoke.  
  
Part of him admitted that he was proud of her; she had been right, his objectivity was gone with the Zucker case. His mind clearing, he found himself dismayed at his behavior in the interrogation room, hoping he hadn't compromised the case with his display of rage. If the case could be saved, Sara was the one who could salvage it.  
  
Taking a small sip of the coffee and feeling the warmth spread in his chest, he carefully analyzed her performance this morning and afternoon. He was very proud of her, especially the way she was growing in her job, learning something new from every case. For a long time, he saw himself as her teacher. Soon, she wouldn't need him professionally anymore.  
  
He refused to think about what that would mean for him personally.  
  
Of all the puzzles he'd solved over his career, one still eluded him, and probably would for several years-why stay so distant when life is so unpredictable? What was it about living that filled him with anxiety and caused him to pull away from those who tried to reach out to him? Why was it so easy to give himself emotionally to the nameless victim?  
  
He held his coffee in both hands, pondering this question again as he had so many times. His job was about seeking the truth, recognizing what drives the darkest in men, and accepting it so he could speak for the victim.  
  
Why couldn't he speak for himself?  
  
Sara signed the last page of her report; case closed. Not only had the upholstery from the Toyota matched the fibers collected from the body, but Darrell's fingerprints were found on the steering wheel. The D.A. would likely charge Darrell with destroying evidence, but since what was found matched the account of the accident, Sara was hopeful that any sentence would be suspended. It would be weeks before she would know.  
  
Yawning, Sara closed her eyes tightly and pressed her palms forward, pushing away the lingering exhaustion that lay in her muscles. She rose and walked the whiteboard, picking up a marker and writing "Solved" next to Joey Zucker's name. 'That's it. Case closed.'  
  
Sara noted the time on her watch: 8:40. About five hours since she'd sent Grissom home. Shift started at 11pm for her today; she needed sleep, but as she grabbed her keys, she doubted she would get it. She needed to settle something first.  
  
Finishing the last of his mug of coffee, Grissom debated the question of food. He looked in his refrigerator, but his stomach was still a bit queasy from the medication. As he closed the refrigerator door, he heard the knock.  
  
As he went to answer his front door, he had a fair idea who was on the other side.  
  
Sara tried to calm the trembling in her legs as she waited for him to answer. 'I'm just checking to see if he's alright, no big deal. I've been here before..'  
  
The door opened before her, and she was struck by the sight that greeted her. Grissom was wearing sweatpants and an old Raiders t-shirt from before the move to Oakland. The shirt was thin, with a hole near the bottom hem. He was barefoot, unshaven, his hair soft without any gel and in need of a trim. His face was inscrutable as he looked at her, and her heart pounded as her brain screamed at her: 'Bad idea. Shouldn't have done this; should have called first.'  
  
She began to open her mouth to speak, but he moved first, stepping aside and silently giving her permission to enter.  
  
She stepped into the townhouse as he closed the door behind her.  
  
He was still silent, and she wasn't sure what to say. She watched him open a cabinet to retrieve a clean mug and set it on the counter. He pulled a quart of milk from the refrigerator, pausing to sniff it before carefully pouring some into the mug and filling the rest with coffee. He stirred the liquid and handed her the cup before turning to put the milk away.  
  
Her brows were knitted as she accepted the cup. "How.How did you-"  
  
"I've seen you make your coffee in the break room. A bit of skim milk, no sugar." He finished the carafe as he continued, "This has been sitting for a while, so I added a bit more milk."  
  
She nodded, confused, and raised the cup, blowing into it. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry to come by without calling.." She trailed off, studying his face, which was still indecipherable. "I thought you'd want to know that the case is closed."  
  
Grissom looked at her for a moment. "Darrell?"  
  
"Yes. Accident."  
  
Grissom drank this in as he drank from his cup. "I see. And the fractures we found on Joey's body?"  
  
"Previous abuse," Sara replied, shifting her weight nervously to one foot. "Nick got the file, and the reports confirmed the injuries."  
  
"Good work." Grissom took his mug to the couch and sat down, looking over his shoulder at Sara. "You handled this case well, Sara."  
  
Sara chuckled bitterly. "I don't feel like it." She sat carefully in the armchair facing Grissom. "Look, Gris, I owe-"  
  
"You owe me nothing. You were right."  
  
"That didn't give me the right to send you home."  
  
Grissom shrugged. "You were the lead investigator. You did what you felt was right for the case."  
  
"That wasn't all of it."  
  
"There was more?"  
  
Sara squared her shoulders, staring at the cup cradled in her hands. "I did what I thought was right for you, too."  
  
"I know." Despite Sara's attempt to hide her eyes, Grissom saw the tears which were welling up inside them. "Sometimes, the choices we make are for many reasons."  
  
Sara felt his gaze on her, and could hear the softness in his voice. She fought to keep her posture straight, but her arms began to tremble first, then her hands. She put the mug down on the table to keep from dropping it, and a hot tear splashed onto her wrist. She tried to keep her voice steady. "I had no right to speak to you like I did. I'm sorry."  
  
Grissom slid closer to the armchair and placed his mug next to hers. "Sara, you don't need to be sorry. I almost compromised your case. I had no business being there. I'm the one who owes you an apology."  
  
She laughed briefly again, raising her eyes to match his. "Why were you so insistent if you know you were wrong?"  
  
Grissom looked away, turning his head. "It wasn't rational. I was angry, I wanted justice-"  
  
"Catherine called this one of your 'trigger cases.'"  
  
"Trigger case?" He paused for a moment. "I suppose so. We all have our flaws."  
  
"What was it about this boy, Grissom? Why was he so special to you?"  
  
"Isn't every child special?"  
  
Sara began to feel her anger rise again. "Don't give me that bullshit. You know what I meant."  
  
Grissom leaned back on the couch, his right arm splayed across the back. "Have you ever thought about what you'd be doing now if you weren't a C.S.I.?"  
  
Sara's forehead crinkled as she pondered his question. "What does this have to do with this case?" Grissom remained silent, his face beseeching her answer. "Alright-No. No I haven't."  
  
"Not even slightly?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because after your seminar in Boston, there was no other possibility."  
  
"Why then?"  
  
"I was studying physics. After seeing the science, the application, the passion.," her voice trailed off and came back more softly, "It was the only possibility."  
  
Grissom leaned forward, lifting her chin with his left hand. "It's all about possibilities, Sara. As long as we live there is possibility." His eyes burned into hers, and her heart began to pound again, but not from nervousness. "It doesn't matter how small-a small hope of achieving something is better than none at all."  
  
Grissom could feel the tension in her, matching the tension in him. He was so close, she wouldn't hold anything against him if he seized this moment, but he held steady. This conversation was important. He might never have this kind of courage again. "Each death we encounter; it's not just about the taking of a life, it's about removing the possibilities. You and me, Sara-we follow our hopes, we make our choices, and we live with them, but Joey Zucker.Joey didn't know there was even the possibility of a choice."  
  
Sara held his eyes as the hand under her chin slid to cup her face. "So it was losing the possibilities of his life that made you angry?"  
  
"Not just his, Sara." His thumb slid against her cheekbone, mimicking her gesture from months before. "I'm disappointed with the loss with every case we work, but this boy.," Grissom's eyes began to burn and he swallowed hard. "This boy had a rotten, painful life, and just when things were looking better.." A single tear escaped the corner of his eye to trail down his right cheek, burning it way across his skin. Sara reached her hand to brush it away, replacing its heat with one more intense, causing him to swallow again.  
  
She had softened, relaxed; he could see it in her eyes and her face, could feel it against his own. "You've been doing this for how long, Gris? Over twenty-five years? How can you still feel so intensely for lost hope?"  
  
"People lose hope all the time, Sara. Usually because they've given up on themselves." He slid his hand away from her face, taking her hands in his and looking into her eyes. "It's another thing to have it taken from you."  
  
Grissom became silent, his eyes still matching hers. Sara inhaled deeply before speaking. "What do you hope for, Grissom?"  
  
His eyebrow rose, the tip of his tongue pressing against his upper lip. "I don't think it's that simple. People hope for lots of things."  
  
"I'm not asking about people; I'm asking you. What do you hope for in life?"  
  
"I'm not sure I could condense it into one word.," he lied. "I know what I hope for right now."  
  
Sara peered at him, her face a question. She felt that Grissom was talking about much more than the case or the job, but she wasn't certain. Grissom was man who spoke volumes with few words, and his openness now was unfamiliar. This man sitting before her now, staring at the union of her hands, was not the man she thought she knew, and she wasn't sure why he was choosing to show this side of himself at all, much less to her.  
  
As they sat in silence, Sara thought back to this morning as she watched him search the crime scene again in desperation. This morning, she was certain that she would never know more about this man, would never find in him what she wanted so desperately herself. She found herself studying him now for some clue, anything that would tell her whether she should give up or keep going. A few weeks ago, she'd been ready to leave without looking back.  
  
Tonight, she found herself curious about the possibilities.  
  
--Finished-- 


End file.
